First Impressions
by spotschica
Summary: Background story to Behind Every Good Man. The story of how Spot and Pocket met and how he discovered her secret.
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, here we go. A short story that gives a little back ground on Pocket, for those of you who enjoyed Behind Every Good Man. I have a few more of these planned, as well as the sequel, so let me know what you think. (that means review, people) This one is set just after Pocket joins the Manhattan newsies.**

"Hey Race, wait up!"

Young Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins turned his head in the direction of the voice calling him. He grinned at the sight of his new friend coming toward him. Pocket trotted over, cap pulled low, smiling happily.

"Whatcha so happy about," Race asked suspiciously.

"Aw, nothin much Race," his friend answered casually. Too casually.

"Don't look like nothing," he observed as the two headed into Tibby's for dinner.

Pocket gave him an odd look, then motioned him over to a booth in the back. Race watched, amused, as Pocket glanced slyly around the room. Seeing the other boys were paying attention to their food, the rookie newsie leaned forward.

"Alright," Pocket said, "But ya gotta keep quiet."

When Race nodded his agreement, Pocket pulled out a wallet, tossing it on the table. The wallet was made of dine leather and stuffed full of bills. Racetrack's eyes widened.

"Where'd ya get that?" he asked, amazed.

Pocket smirked. "Got it off some nob over in Midtown. Prob'ly don't even know its gone yet."

Race laughed at the proud expression on Pocket's face.

"Bettah not let any a the othas see that," he warned. "They'll all be bummin off ya."

"Nah," Pocket scoffed. "Ain't nobody gettin their paws on me dough."

They didn't notice Roller approaching until his shadow fell across the table.

"What's happenin fellas?" the tall Manhattan leader asked casually, his eyes falling on the wallet in the middle of the table.

Racetrack looked guilty, Pocket only stared up at the other boy with an innocent expression.

"Hey Roller," the younger newsie tossed out an offhand greeting.

"Whatcha got there, Pocket?" the leader's voice was stern.

Pocket shrugged. "Found a wallet."

"Oh yeah?" Roller mocked. "An' where'd ya 'find' this wallet?"

"Midtown." Pocket answered easily, without a hint of shame.

Roller sighed as he looked down at his newest newsie. Pocket had only joined them a few weeks ago but already the new kid showed signs of being a top seller. Unfortunately, the small, slender boy tended to be a little "free" with other people's belongings. He never stole from the newsies, but Roller couldn't convince him to stop picking the pockets of the wealthier citizens of Manhattan.

"That's the second time this week, Pocket," Roller scolded. "Ya gotta stop this. We took ya in cuz ya almost got caught. Sooner or later, you'se gonna get nabbed by the bulls, bring trouble down on alla us."

Pocket shrugged, unconcerned.

"Don't worry bout it," he said in his odd, husky voice. "I ain't gonna get caught."

Roller gave a firm look.

"I like ya, kid," he warned, "but if ya make trouble for me an' the boys, yer out on ya ear. Got it?"

Pocket agreed reluctantly. "I'll be careful."

Racetrack noticed that Pocket didn't promise to stop stealing, only to be more careful about getting caught. Roller noticed too, but didn't comment.

'You boys ready for tanight?" the leader asked, changing the subject.

"What's tanight?" Pocket wondered curiously.

"Poker game," Race answered glumly. "Some of the boys from the Bronz is comin by for cards."

"Whatcha so down about then?" his friend wanted to know. "Ya love poker."

"Lost all me money at the tracks," the little Italian confessed. "Got nothin ta bet."

Pocket smiled. "Well, my friend, looks like its ya lucky day. Just so happens I came across some extra cash taday," the tiny dark haired newsie said generously. "Could be persuaded to spot ya a little ta get ya goin."

Roller leveled a warning look at Pocket.

"Be careful throwin money around an' actin uppity," he cautioned. "Brooklyn's comin too. Don't want ya makin a bad impression."

Pocket sobered slightly. Even outside newsie circles, Brooklyn's reputation was well-known. Race, however, didn't seem bothered by the news.

"Brooklyn's comin?" he said excitedly. "That's good. Always a good game with Brooklyn," he told Pocket. "An' ya can meet me pal Spot."

Pocket hung back in a corner as the guest began to arrive at the lodging house. Being a thief required you to slip in and out of crowds unnoticed, and Pocket had blending in down to an art form. As the common room filled with newsies calling out greetings and insults, no one paid any attention to the small figure slouched low against the wall. Except one newsie.

Spot Conlon tapped Racetrack's shoulder.

"Who's the new kid?" he asked curiously, with a nod at Pocket.

Racetrack grinned and started that way, motioning for Spot to follow.

"This here's Pocket," Race introduced when they reached the corner Pocket had claimed. "An' this is Spot Conlon," he continued. "He's from Brooklyn, but don't hold it against him."

Spot gave his friend a playful shove for the insult, but kept his attention on Pocket. Suddenly nervous, Pocket nodded wordlessly at the newcomer.

"Where'd ya come from?" Spot wanted to know.

"Around," Pocket answered simply. With a grin at Racetrack, Manhattan's latest addition darted off into the crowd. Those strange, pale eyes on the Brooky made Pocket nervous, they seemed to see too much. Pocket had secrets nobody needed to see.

Spot watched Pocket's retreat, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Race noticed the look on his friends face and hurried to distract him.

"Look, they's startin the games."

Racetrack and Spot settled in at a table with Roller, Blink, and a couple of other boys. Race saw Pocket at the next table playing with Snooker, the leader of the Bronx newsies, and Lucky, his second in command. Pocket chatted easily with Lucky over the cards, and Race remembered that they new each other already. Pocket had spent a lot of time in the Bronx before coming to Manhattan. Spot watched covertly, sneaking glances at Pocket that no one but Racetrack noticed.

By the end of the evening, the game was down the just Race, Spot, and Pocket. The three of them were actually the youngest newsies allowed to play, but they'd steadily beaten out all of the older boys until no one else was left. Then the game got serious. Racetrack was arguably the best Poker player in New York, but he soon realized he had stiff competition. Spot had already perfected his famous blank mask and Pocket's face also bore no expression, gave nothing away.

They played in near silence, speaking only when necessary, each studying the others carefully for signs of weakness. Racetrack noticed that Spot watched Pocket especially close. The stakes went higher and higher, until Race reluctantly folded and settled back to watch the battle unfolding between his friends.

Hand after hand they stayed pretty much even, raising the bets more and more. Finally Spot called it, leaning forward casually.

"Let's see 'em," he challenged.

Pocket laid down a decent hand, two pair, kings over eights. Spot smirked evilly as he turned over his own cards to reveal a royal flush. Cheers erupted from the watching newsies as the Brooklynite raked his winnings across the table. In the uproar, no one heard when he leaned forward to whisper in Pocket's ear.

"Couldn't let myself get beat by a goil, now could I?"


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Pocket rose early as usual, hurrying into the washroom to complete her morning routine before Kloppman woke the rest of the boys. Washed, dressed, and long dark hair hidden safely under her cap, she headed out for coffee. She sat on a bench, savoring the warm brew, keeping a watchful eye on the lodging house. When the newsies spilled out onto the street, she slipped easily among them, keeping her head low as she followed them to the Distribution Center.

Racetrack caught up with her after she bought her papes, grabbing hold of her arm as she tried to hurry away.

"Where's the fire?" he teased.

"Just got some things ta take care of. Wanna get started."

Racetrack eyed the stack of papers under her arm, noting that she held considerably less than her normal 80.

"Ya short on dough, Pocket?" he asked in concern. "Ya didn't get too many."

"Nah," she assured him. "Still got a bit o' cash left ovah from yestaday. Just wanna sell me papes by lunch."

"Comin ta the tracks with me?" he invited.

She shook her head. "Got business ta tend to," she told him. "Catch up with ya latah."

Pocket jogged off, eager to avoid his questions.

Luckily the headline was fairly decent today, and she didn't have to get too creative to sell her papers. Pocket made her way across town, selling her last two just as she reached the Brooklyn Bridge.

She was on her way to talk to Spot. Somehow, he'd figured out her secret, and she had to make sure he didn't tell anyone else. After his whispered remark, Pocket had watched him carefully for the rest of the night to see if he shared his discovery with the rest of the newsies. She hadn't _seen_ him say anything, and the boys hadn't treated her any differently when they all went to bed, but she had to be sure. Racetrack hadn't seemed suspicious either, though she had been sure Spot would have told him. Pocket knew she had to find Spot and convince him not to spill the beans.

She crossed the bridge into Brooklyn and looked around curiously. Now she just had to find him. Despite her years roaming around the city, she'd only been to Brooklyn twice, and she walked slowly, keeping an eye out for any newsies who could point her in the right direction.

As luck would have it, the first newsie she came across was just the one she was looking for. Spot Conlon was stationed on a corner, he stance cocky a he stood yelling headlines at the passers by. Back turned to her, he didn't see Pocket come up behind him. she watched him sell a couple of papers before she made her presence known.

"Conlon."

He tensed at her voice but only gave a lazy grin when he turned and saw who'd approached him.

"Afternoon, _miss_," he drawled mockingly, his grin widening at her angry look.

"Gotta talk ta ya," she said shortly.

"Hmmm," he mused. "Whatevah for?"

Pocket refused to react to his baiting.

"Cut the shit, pretty boy," she spat. "I gotta talk ta ya."

His grin faced at her gruff tone. Even at twelve, very few people had the guts to talk back to Spot Conlon.

"Alright," he acquiesced, impressed by her nerve. "We'll talk."

Pocket followed him into a nearby alley, away from the busy street. He leaned casually against a wall, but she held herself stiffly upright, meeting his expectant gaze.

Spot spoke first into the silence. "I know what ya came for," he announced.

She nodded curtly. "Don't want ya runnin ya mouth," she gave it to him straight, there was little use in dancing around the purpose of her visit.

He raised an eyebrow at her bluntness, eyeing her speculatively.

"Why the big secret?" he asked. "How come ya don't want 'em knowin you'se a goil?"

She lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. "Just don't," she told him.

Spot wasn't satisfied by her answer.

"Why?" he persisted. "Ain't no big deal. There's been goil newsies before, ya know. Couple in Manhattan a while back, an' Tuck's got a few ovah in Queens." He assumed a superior look. "Course, they nevah last long," he challenged.

Pocket snorted. "There ya go," she snapped. "That's why." She glared at him, then sighed and dropped her head.

"Just easier if they all think I'se a boy," she said wearily. "I'se just as good as alla them, and they accept me. I can sell just as many papes, play cards just as good, run just as fast, an' nobody thinks nothin of it. If they knew I was a girl," she explained, "they'd always be watchin for some sign to prove that I ain't good enough. An' they'd treat me different, always try ta watch out for me, protect me."

She looked up at him, surprised to see him listening attentively. She'd half expected him to make fun of her.

"I can watch out for myself," she told him firmly, "but it helps if I'se a boy. I can hold my own in a fight, an' I can run pretty fast if I run inta fellas too big for me. But if I'se a goil," she continued grimly, looking back down at her feet, "that's different. It'd be a whole new kinda fight."

Spot watched her closely, mildly surprised by the logic behind her reasoning. He agreed with everything she'd said, he just hadn't expected that kind of street smarts from a girl. His experience with the female species had taught him that girls were petty and emotional, and prone to ill-thought decisions. Pocket showed a level of intelligence lacking in most boys their age, let alone girls of his acquaintance. She was right, he realized. As a boy, she fit in easily, had no problem matching her peers in almost every activity. But if word got out that she was a girl, she'd have more serious issues to deal with.

Pocket felt his eyes on her and lifted her head once again to meet his stare. For several long minutes, neither spoke. They studied each other intently, her green eyes met his evenly. Once again, Spot was impressed; he held a grudging respect for her ability to stand without flinching under his icy regard. Finally, she spoke.

"Why didn't ya say nothin?"

He paused to consider her question, then gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Ain't my secret ta tell," he said bluntly. "Figured ya got ya reasons."

She relaxed slightly, but wasn't ready to back down.

"An' now?"

"An' now," he pushed away from the wall, "it still ain't my secret ta tell."

He adjusted his cap on his head and started walking. At the mouth of the alley, he turned, the teasing grin back on his face.

"Don't worry, dollface," he mocked. "Ya little secret is safe with me."

Spot turned and strolled jauntily out onto the street, leaving her fuming with insult at his parting shot.


	3. Chapter 3

Spot Conlon was as good as his word. Even though she didn't like him, Pocket was grateful for that. None of the other newsies found out she was only pretending to be a boy. Pocket was glad for this; even though sometimes the charade grew tiresome, it was just so much easier than being a girl.

Pocket continued to enjoy life among the Manhattan newsies, selling more and more papes and building a reputation as an all-around good "fella". She was closest to Race and Blink, and most evenings found her playing cards with them at the lodging house. She preferred to sell alone though, too many years spent fending for herself on the street led to a fiercely independent streak. She worked best on her own.

One sunny afternoon she was trying out a new selling spot on the outskirts of Manhattan, close to the Brooklyn Bridge. Business was slow, it was taking much longer than normal to unload all her papers. The sun had sunk low on the horizon when she finally sold the last one. With a weary sigh, Pocket promised herself a better selling spot tomorrow. Maybe over by Central Park, or near Sheepshead so she could visit with Race.

As she started toward home a glint caught her eye. She looked over to see a fat, pompous-looking swell checking the time on his pocketwatch. It was the reflection of the setting sun on the watchface that drew her attention. Pocket grinned slyly.

Despite Roller's repeated warnings, Pocket continued to supplement her income by relieving the well-to-do of their possessions. Stealing was almost second nature to her, and the memory of many hungry nights drove her to keep an eye out for anything extra to save away. The lure of the golden watch was too much for her to resist.

But she had promised to be careful. A quick look around showed the streets almost empty, and the swell strolled along unaware of her intent. Decision made, she pulled her cap down low and ambled toward him.

Just as he was about to pass her she stumbled and fell against him, bouncing a little off his overstuffed belly. Even as he exclaimed in surprise she deftly unhooked the watch chain from his buttons and slid her hand into his vest pocket. Her fingers closed around the watch and she smiled softly to herself. Muttering an apology, she made to back away, but his vest was stretched so tightly across his fat stomach that her hand got stuck.

"Hey!" the man shouted.

Pocket yanked her hand free and made to run away, but her grabbed her arm, preventing her escape.

"You little thief," he blustered. "How dare you!" His face was red and puffed up with rage.

Acting quickly, she brought her foot down heavily on his instep. The sudden pain caused him to loosen his grip and she was able to pull free. Pocket raced away, his angry shouts spurring her on.

Suddenly more shouts filled the air and Pocket looked over her shoulder to see a couple of policemen behind her. She swore angrily and picked up speed.

Piercing whistles grew closer as they chased her over the bridge. She ran without really looking where she was going, her only thought to get away. They were gaining on her, and Pocket knew she better come up with a plan fast if she wanted to stay out of the refuge.

As she rounded a corner she spotted an alley and ducked into it, hoping to hide before the cops caught up with her. Her attention was focused behind her; she didn't watch where she was going and barreled straight into Spot Conlon.

"What the . . .!" he exclaimed, but the shrill sound of a whistle cut him off. Looking over her shoulder, he saw her pursuers and understanding dawned in his light blue eyes.

"C'mon," he grabbed her hand and pulled her further into the alley.

Pocket started struggling, needing to hide, until she noticed the fence at the back of the alley. Or, more importantly, the hole in the fence. Spot urged her through the hole and quickly followed, the two of them easily slipping through the small opening. There was no way the cops could fit through that hole, but Spot took off running. Eager to put even more distance between herself and the bulls, Pocket sped after him without question. They ran until they reached the docks, slumping breathlessly against the stacked crates.

Legs aching, heart pounding, Pocket closed her eyes in relief at her close call. When she caught her breath again, she turned to Spot. He leaned negligently against the crates, an odd look on his face.

"Thought ya could take care of yaself."

The thanks she had been about to offer died on Pocket lips at the smug words from her savior. She folded her arms defiantly and fixed him with a glare.

"Woulda gotta away," she snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't look like it. Anotha few steps and they woulda had ya." Spot wore a superior expression. "Lucky I happened along."

Angry at herself and frustrated by his insults, Pocket said nothing. She continued to glare furiously at him out of narrowed green eyes. Impervious to her anger, he cocked his head to the side and regarded her with the air of one contemplating a puzzle.

"Race said ya was good at theivin," he taunted.

That got him a response.

"Fat bastard's clothes was too tight," she grumbled. "Me hand got stuck."

Spot's sudden laughter started her with its volume. Her eyes shot green sparks as she watched him double over with mirth.

"Ain't funny," she groused, causing him to laugh harder.

His laughter was infectious; as he continued to chuckle she found herself seeing the humor in the situation.

"Alright, so maybe it was kinda funny," she admitted with a wry grin.

"Too tight," he repeated happily. "Hand got stuck."

Laughter transformed the face of the young Brooklynite. A broad grin split his face, wrinkling the corners of blue eyes that no longer seemed cold. For a moment, Pocket forgot her surroundings, so transfixed was she by the change in him. Then she remembered, this was Spot Conlon, arrogant braggart she held nothing but contempt for.

Pocket was arrogant in her own right. She'd survived for years on her own and hated the idea that she'd had to be rescued. Especially by him. Her smile tightened until it became more of a snarl, her back stiff with irritation. Lifting her chin, she shot him a quelling look.

Oddly enough, her furious glare calmed him down. He stopped laughing and met her stare with one of his own. Icy blue eyes clashed with fiery green in a silent battle of wills. Amazingly, it was Spot that looked away first, glimpsing in her expression the barest hint of the steel strength of her character. What he saw in her eyes struck a chord within him, an echo of his own unshakeable self confidence that set him apart.

Pocket continued to stare at him, snorting softly when he looked away. With that small victory bolstering her bruised ego, she forced out a reluctant thanks. At his curt nod, she relaxed slightly and took a look around.

The sky was almost dark now, and Pocket had no wish to find her way out of Brooklyn at night. Without another word for Spot she squared her shoulders and set off back to Manhattan to nurse her wounded pride.


	4. Chapter 4

**Yeah, so I know it's been a little bit longer than forever since I updated, but I found this the other day and wanted to get back to it. Hope you enjoy it.**

After that day, an uneasy truce existed between Spot and Pocket. She resented him for coming to her rescue when she desperately wanted to be invincible. She didn't want to need anybody, and it galled her that she had once needed him. Whenever he was around she was reminded of her failure and it irritated her. At the same time, she found herself fascinated by his complex personality, which irritated her even further.

Spot shared her confusion. He couldn't help but watch her whenever she was around, and without realizing it he had a mental catalog of all her quirks and personality traits until he felt he'd known her forever. Undoubtedly she proved her worth as a newsie and comrade, but the occasional glimpses he saw of the girl underneath put her outside his scope of understanding. Torn between grudging respect for Pocket the newsie and a growing interest in Pocket the girl, he finally settled for general dislike.

The feeling was mutual. Whenever all the newsies gathered together in Manhattan or Brooklyn, the two either glared coldly at each other or went overboard with false politeness. Eventually, they settled into a routine of studiously ignoring one another when ever they found themselves in each other's company.

The next few months were a time of upheaval in Brooklyn. Carver, the head of the Brooklyn newsies, was badly beaten in a bar fight and never recovered. The Brooklyn boys, always a rowdy bunch, floundered without a leader, fighting amongst themselves and with the other boroughs. Soon, they began to look around for someone to take control. Strangely, it was starting to look more and more like they wanted to give that control to Spot Conlon. Most of them.

Despite his young age, this turn of events came as no surprise to those in Manhattan who knew him well. Even at twelve Spot was already showing signs of greatness.

Although he had a lot of Brooklyn behind him, Spot did not, as some expected, simply step smoothly into Carver's place. He had assumed unofficial leadership of Brooklyn, but Spot knew his position was tenuous at best unless he made some sort of power play.

The political climate in Brooklyn was the favorite topic of conversation in Manhattan. Still determined not to like Spot, Pocket nonetheless listened raptly whenever his name came up. His struggle for dominance intrigued her, and she began spending most of her time selling close to the Bridge, hoping for new tidbits of information.

She hadn't picked pockets since the day she ran into Spot, but she still preferred to sell alone. And so one day in late spring she happened to be strolling by the Bridge when she overheard a couple of boys talking about Spot Conlon.

Her ears perked up at the sound of his name and her steps slowed as she strained to hear more. When she realized the boys hadn't noticed her presence, she ambled closer. With her uncanny talent for fading into the background, she was able to get near enough to hear their conversation. Loitering casually at the end of the bridge, she knelt to tie and retie her shoelaces while she eavesdropped.

"That Conlon kid's gettin too big for 'is britches," one of them, a tall boy with a crooked nose was saying.

The other boy, shorter but heavily muscled, agreed, "It ain't right, Ace. You was second in command ta Carver. Ya should be the leader now he's dead."

"I would be," Ace complained, "'Cept Carver stopped trustin me not too long ago. Caught me takin money from some of the little kids. Told me if he caught me again, he'd kick me outta Brooklyn."

"So what?" his companion dismissed. "Only person what new about that was Carver, and he ain't tellin nobody. 'Sides, there's a buncha us don't want some snot nosed kid tellin us what ta do."

"Where does he get off, thinkin he's in charge?" Ace spat angrily.

"Listen, Ace," the other boy said slyly. "I'se tellin ya, ya got folks behind ya. If ya get rid of Conlon, nobody else'll stand in ya way."

"Sure, O'Grady, but how do I go about gettin rid of him?"

The boy called O'Grady sighed wearily. He was obviously the smarter of the two.

"Easy. Every coupla days, Conlon goes ta Manhattan. Usually leaves soon as he's done sellin. Comes back pretty late most nights. Alone. All's we gotta do is wait for 'im when he ain't got nobody around ta help him."

Ace looked doubtful. "He's got a lotta support, O'Grady. Don't know that it'll go too good for me when the boys find out I'se tha one what killed him."

Again, O'Grady sighed in irritation with his friend's stupidity. "Who says they gotta know? New York's a dangerous place," he said pointedly. "Ain't a good idea walkin' round by yaself. Nevah know what could happen."

Comprehension dawned on Ace's ugly face as O'Grady's words sunk in.

"Alright," he agreed. "Let's do it. Next time he goes to Manhattan."


	5. Chapter 5

Pocket waited a while before getting up, letting the plotting newsies disappear out of sight. She didn't want them to see her and realize she'd been listening, so she continued to kneel there as they walked away, replaying their words over and over.

She was shocked by what she'd heard. True, she was no stranger to the seamier side of life in New York, and living on her own for so long had forced her to grow up fast, but she still retained some of the innocence a twelve year old should have. It sent a shiver down her spine to hear them so calmly planning to take a life.

_Spot's life,_ she realized. _They's gonna kill Spot._

Unless she warned him.

Pocket shot to her feet. She had to find him. With barely a moment's thought, she hurried across the bridge. When she reached Brooklyn she broke into a run, dodging carts and pedestrians as she wound her way toward the docks.

She found him at the head of the dock, practicing with his slingshot. He glanced up in surprise at her approach, but quickly schooled his face into an expression of boredom. Pointedly ignoring her, he went back to shooting bottles.

Pocket bit back a sigh of frustration.

"Need ta talk ta ya, Conlon," she announced.

"Not now," he dismissed without looking at her. "I'se busy."

Pocket stamped her foot in annoyance. She stepped up to him and snatched his slingshot, ignoring his murderous look.

"Now," she insisted.

Something in her town registered with him, and he nodded briefly. "So talk."

"Not here," she said. "Someplace private."

Pocket refused to go to the lodging house, so Spot lead her to a quiet street a few blocks away. They found a bench and he sat comfortably while she paced in front of him.

"So?" he prompted.

Pocket looked at him helplessly, unsure where to begin.

"Ya can't come ta Manhattan no more," she blurted.

"What?" he scoffed. "Ya dragged me here ta tell me I can't go ta Manhattan?" He snorted derisively. "Got news for ya, dollface, I goes where I wants." He stood to leave.

"Wait!" she jumped forward, grabbing his arm.

Surprised at her actions, he let her shove him back down. She resumed her pacing and he settled himself comfortably, relaxing with one arm stretched along the back of the bench.

Pocket stood and looked at him.

"D'ya know two guys named Ace and O'Grady?" she asked.

Spot tensed at her question, but quickly made himself relax.

"Yeah," he said guardedly.

"Well," she continued, " I guess ya know this Ace kid thinks he should be the leader of Brooklyn."

Spot nodded. "Sure," he agreed. "He was Carver's second. Normally he'd already have stepped in, but somethin happened before Carver died," he explained. "Somethin made Carver stop trustin him. Now mosta tha boys don't want nothin ta do wit' him."

"He was takin money from the younger newsies," Pocket said.

"What?" Spot looked confused.

"That's what he did, what made Carver stop trustin him. Carver told him if he did it again he'd be tossed outta Brooklyn."

Pocket now had Spot's full attention.

"How do ya know all this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Heard 'em talkin about it," she told him. "Him and that O'Grady."

Spot nodded carefully.

"What else they say?"

"That they don't want a kid bossin 'em around," she said.

"And?" Spot sensed there was something more.

Pocket hesitated. "They'se gonna kill ya, Spot." The words came out in a rush.

His eyes widened slightly, but other than that he didn't react. Pocket watched him nervously, and noticed that after his initial surprise, he almost seemed to be expecting this.

Spot eyed her speculatively.

"Ya hoid 'em say all this?" he questioned.

She nodded.

"They didn't know ya was there, then?" he assumed.

"'Course not," she smirked. "Didn't even half ta hide from those two dumbasses. I was passin by when I hoid ya name, so I stopped and hoid some more."

Once again he studied her intently, his eyes locked on hers, searching for something.

Why'd ya come tell me?" he finally asked. "Ya don't like me."

She looked at him like she was crazy.

"Well I don't want ya ta _die_!" she exclaimed, amazed that there was even a question.

She grinned. "'Sides, we'se even now," she told him. "Ya saved me, now I saved ya back. I guess I can like ya now, long as ya keep that ego unda control."

Her grin widened, and Spot blinked dumbly at the brightness of her smile, almost missing her next words.

"So watcha gonna do?"

He lifted a shoulder, unconcerned.

"Soak 'em," he said flatly.

"Spot," she sat next to him, serious now. "They'se gonna wait for ya to come back from 'Hattan alone. Ya gotta be careful. Don't go ta Manhattan. Don't go anywhere by yaself."

Spot's face settled into a hard mask, his blue eyes almost grey with fury.

"Let 'em come afta me," he said evilly. "Be the last time."

"Sure ya wanna play it that way?" Pocket's voice said she had other ideas.

Spot turned to face her, surprised she'd questioned his decision.

"Whadya mean?" he spoke sharply.

"Just not what I'd do," she replied, unfazed by his anger.

Spot surprised himself by wondering what she meant.

"So what would ya do?" he demanded.

Pocket leaned her cheek on her hand, taking time to consider her answer.

"Well," she began, "If ya just go on like normal, an' ya come ta Manhattan, they's gonna wait an' jump on ya when ya's comin back."

"Sure," Spot said, irritated. "An' I'll soak 'em an' they won't be a problem no more."

"Right," she agreed reasonably. "But nobody's gonna know. Those two ain't the only one's gunnin for ya. There'll be othas don't want ya in charge, an' they need ta know ya ain't scared or ya won't be able ta go know where without soakin somebody."

"So I'll tell 'em," he insisted. "When people ask about Ace an' O'Grady, I'll tell 'em I soaked 'em cause they tried ta get rid of me."

Pocket folded her arms and looked at him, considering. "Alright," she allowed. "Ya _could_ do that. But dontcha think it'd be bettah if people saw ya?"

Spot mulled over her words carefully, weighing his options.

"Maybe ya got a point," he admitted. "So ya think I should make sure this all happens with a lot of the other boys around?"

"Exactly," she nodded. "An' I think that ya should also be the one to make tha foist move." He raised a questioning eyebrow, wanting to hear more, and she continued excitedly.

"How bout this?" She plopped down next to him on the bench, leaning forward eagerly as she laid out her idea. 'Tamarra night, ya call a meetin or somethin, get all tha boys togetha. Then, when alla Brooklyn's there, ya call this Ace kid out. Tell him ya know what he's plannin, ya know he wants ya gone so he can be leadah."

She paused, looking anxiously at Spot, who gave an approving nod. "Then I challenge 'im, fight 'im, an beat 'im in fronta everybody," he finished for her.

Pocket watched as his eyes shifted to a steely grey as he considered the full implications of her plan.

"Right, right," he mused, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I can tell everybody why Carver stopped trustin Ace, that way the boys that do support him will know he's a no good liar. Then, when I soak 'im , they'll all know who's tougher. An that'll show anybody else they bettah think hard before comin afta me."

"Right!" Pocket grinned, glad he agreed with her. "See this gives ya tha chance ta get rid of Ace and show ya authority."

Spot sat back against the bench, a sly smile spreading across his face.

"Dat's a good plan," he praised. "You'se pretty smart."

"For a goil, ya mean?" she shot back.

'Nah," he shook his head. "For anybody. Not too many kids our age thinkin about the big pitcha. Like I says, you'se pretty smart."

Pocket eyed him warily to see if he was teasing, but saw only sincerity.

"Oh," she muttered lamely. "Well, thanks."

His smile broadened into a grin at her discomfort. He watched as she stood and stretched, glancing up at the darkened sky.

"Guess I bettah head back," she remarked. "Told Race I'd play cards with him."

"Tell the little cheat I said hi," Spot said. Without standing, he spit on his palm and extended it to her. Again, she hesitated, expecting him to snatch it away. Finally she, too spit in her own hand and they shook.

"We'se even now, Conlon," she reminded him.

Spot nodded and watched her walk away.

"Hey," he added as a thought occurred to him.

She turned back, waiting.

"Me boys'll all get headaches tryin ta figure out how I knew about Ace," he laughed.

Pocket's face lit up with a mischievous grin.

"Yeah, well just tell 'em a little boid told ya."

**The End. Hope you all liked it. I do have more coming, a couple more prequels and then I also hope to get around to the sequel. If only I had about a billion more hours in the day. But I missed Pocket and Spot, so hopefully I'll find time to write more.**


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